


Bedtime for Jellyfish

by sherlohomora



Series: 221Bedtime [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Gen, M/M, Parentlock, dads, silly little scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-21
Updated: 2017-02-21
Packaged: 2018-09-26 04:05:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9861743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sherlohomora/pseuds/sherlohomora
Summary: Just a fluffy little scene - Rosie's dads participate in her favorite bedtime ritual.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Not beta-ed or Brit-picked or edited for spelling/grammar. This is my first attempt at writing something longer than a headcanon! (Find me on Tumblr @sherlohomora)

John has almost finished his write-up of their latest case (“The Book Club Burglar” -- he hopes he’ll think of a better title before posting it to the blog) when he feels his mobile vibrate in the front pocket of his jeans.

_Come at once. Bedroom. I require your assistance. -SH_

John smiles down at the screen, then continues pecking away at the laptop keys. He’d let it slip during a post-coital cuddle session that he sort of misses receiving signed texts from Sherlock (“I always found it rather endearing, you know...gave me a little thrill”). Now his clever husband deploys the old habit as a tool of manipulation -- sentiment as a weapon. The mobile buzzes again.

_I have the suspect cornered, but she’s VERY dangerous. -SH_

John sighs. He’s re-written the same sentence at least six times now, trying to tie up loose ends without getting bogged down in explanations of bitter social drama. Readers would probably like that, though. All the backstabbing and manipulation, like something out of a television drama.

_I need you NOW, John._

John highly doubts there’s any “danger.” True, he’s heard some periodic shrieking, but he’s fairly certain those were cries of mirth. Rosie adores bath time when Sherlock is in charge. John texts back.

_Sorry, can’t. Busy blogging about my genius husband. :)_

_Dull. Get in here._  
_Please._

After all this time, John should really be better at resisting Sherlock’s ludicrous demands.

_5 minutes -JW_

Only three minutes pass before he hears the sound of the tub draining and his husband calling his name.

“Johhhnnn! Johhhhhn...I’m in daaan-ger…”

The cry for help is followed by more muffled giggling.

“Just let me finish this paragraph, yeah?” The whole point of Sherlock taking over bath duty was so John could get some work done.

“JOHHHHHHN!” A soprano wail joins the baritone moan.

“JOHHHHNNNNN!”

_Oh fine,_ John thinks. _Sod the blog (for now, at least)._

“All right, all right, I’m coming. Pipe down or you’ll wake Mrs. Hudson.” John clicks “save draft,” drains his mug of his now-cold tea, and pads down the corridor to the bedroom.

Sherlock stands at the foot of the bed, arms crossed, brow furrowed. His t-shirt is dappled with damp spots, he’s pushed up the soaked sleeves of his old blue dressing gown. Steam from the bath has made his hair go all wild and floofy. John is reminded once again that fatherhood has only served to render Sherlock Holmes more adorable.

The lanky detective’s gaze is fixed on their three year-old daughter, freshly bathed and clad in her pink Hello Kitty pyjamas (a present from Molly). She’s sprawled face up atop the duvet, rhythmically undulating all four of her little limbs in the air.

“ _Bloop, buh-loop, buh-loop_ ,” Rosie says, puffing her cheeks and tossing her head of still-damp curls. John sidles up next to Sherlock and peers down at the wriggling girl.

“Er, Sherlock…is that a _jellyfish_ on our bed?”

“Obviously, John,” drawls the world's only consulting detective. “While you were busy 'blogging,' I chased this nefarious cnidarian across every ocean on Earth.”

The madman catches his blogger’s eye, face breaking into that soft, special smile that causes warm flames of affection to bloom in John’s chest. Ten years have passed since the January night Sherlock Holmes first gave him that look, and it still makes all John’s atoms tingle. Every damn time.

Rosie giggles and grins up at her daddy, arms and legs continuing their steady pulsation. “Arrest the Jellyfish” is Rosie’s current favourite post-bath/pre-bed ritual: whenever she has to work off some excess energy in order to sleep, Sherlock and John perform a very loose reenactment of the case they were working the night she was born, with Rosie assuming the villain’s role. (Thankfully, she only requests one element of role-play from second half of that harrowing night: _“Do the face, Papa!”_ Rosie will beg, _“Do the face from when you saw my head coming out!”_ Sherlock always obliges, twisting his elegant features into a pop-eyed grimace of horror and disgust. The three year old thinks it’s the most hilarious sight in the world).

“You know, love, we’ve been over this a thousand times,” John recites, feigning exasperation, “You _can’t arrest a jellyfish.”_

“We can _try_ ,” counters Sherlock, infusing each word with Shakespearean gravitas.

“We DID try!” John punctuates this line by forcefully slamming his fists on the mattress, the aftershocks causing his delighted daughter’s body to bounce an inch or so into the air.

“And we’ll KEEP trying, because Sherlock Holmes and John Watson are NOT about to be bested by a _JELLYFISH_.” Rosie lets out a deafening squeal as Sherlock smacks the mattress with passion -- for a split-second, John worries that she’ll go flying off the bed. However, she recovers quickly and resumes waving her tentacles.

“ _Bloop, bloop, buh-loop,_ ” says Rosie.

“Certainly a formidable opponent,” John comments.

“Agreed. For a creature lacking a central nervous system, she’s surprisingly cunning.” His tone is dead-serious, for the game is on – Rosie and Sherlock insist on total commitment whilst playing make-believe. They are kindred spirits: adventurous, stubborn, inventive, and rather fussy about details/accuracy (last month, Rosie requested to take her bath in saltwater -- “like a REAL mermaid”). The consulting detective still claims to disdain fantasy, but when he's playing with “Watson” John glimpses the imaginative boy who dreamed of becoming a pirate.

“ _Bloop buh-loop._ ” Rosie’s diminutive pink tongue darts out from between her lips. Sherlock wrinkles his nose and mirrors the gesture.

“Cunning and _cutting_ , too. She’s taunting us.”

“Is that so? I’m afraid I don’t speak jellyfish,” John says, choking back a laugh.

Sherlock draws himself up to full height and whirls on his heel, swishing the hem of his dressing gown as he lunges to tickle under Rosie’s arms.

“ _Zzzt! Zzzt!_ ” She twitches violently at his touch, making a buzzing sound with her tongue and teeth. Sherlock yelps, then recoils in pretend pain.

“Ow! She STUNG me, John!” He clutches his fingers to his chest. Rosie cackles triumphantly.

“Let me see.”

Sherlock sighs and presents his “injured” hand to the army doctor, keeping his wrist excessively limp. Rosie giggles at her papa’s silly performance. _Drama Queen,_ John muses. The corners of his lips curl up involuntarily.

“I need you to suck out the venom,” Sherlock whines. His face and tone are the epitome of angelic innocence, but there’s a wickedly dirty glint in those silver-blue eyes.

_Oh for Christ’s sake…_ John arranges his features in his best “Captain Watson” glower, planting a chaste peck on each tip of his husband’s ridiculously long fingers. _Behave yourself, you tosser_ , he says with a glance. Sherlock shoots him a self-satisfied smirk.

“Better?”

“Much. Thank you, doctor.” Sherlock makes a show of waggling his freshly-healed fingers, then steeples them under his chin. He paces in front of the bed. “Obviously we need to deactivate her nematocysts.”

John quirks an eyebrow, confused. _Is that in the standard script?_

“Her what?”

“Stinging cells, Daddy,” Rosie pipes up, briefly breaking character in order to remedy her father’s ignorance.

“Precisely, Watson. John, do keep up.” Sherlock winks at Rosie, then puts a conspiratorial arm around John. He pulls him to the corner of the room and delivers his next lines in a stage-whisper.

“Now, here’s our battle plan: when I give the word, you’ll disarm her center, avoiding the tentacles, then I can swoop in cuff her.”

His voice carries a note of contempt: this is Sherlock’s least-favorite bit of dialogue. In fact, the particulars of the “battle plan” are entirely John’s idea: simple, exciting, effective. Sherlock, however, is annoyed by its lack of both plausibility and specificity (“ _‘Disarm her center?’ In no way is that scientifically accurate, John. Is that a line from one of your Bond films?_ ”). The mad genius spent an entire weekend attempting to develop a more realistic method of arrest, but in the end he had to concede that John’s way is the most fun.

“Brilliant plan. Extraordinary,” John whispers back. They pause for a moment to observe Rosie, who’s positively quivering with excitement.

“Aaaaaand…NOW!”

In a flash, John lunges over their jellyfish daughter, rucks up her pyjama top, and blows a long, loud raspberry on her round tummy. Rosie thrashes and squeals, gasping for breath as John continues his assault (which could be damn near deadly, depending on the length of his stubble -- Rosie is another person who prefers John clean-shaven).

“She’s not giving in, Sherlock!” John says. He lets Rosie catch her breath before rubbing the tip of his nose against the soft skin of her stomach. He can't discern odors with Sherlock's precision, but he likes to believe he can still detect the faintest trace of that new-baby smell he used to inhale like a drug.

This is Sherlock’s cue to glide gracefully onto the bed, letting his dressing gown furl out behind him like a cape. He then plants a line of kisses down each of Rosie’s four “tentacles.” For the grand finale, he lifts both of her feet in the air and buzzes his lips against the tiny, tender soles.

“ _Buhl-oop, bloop…bleeeeeeeeeehhhhhhh_.”

It never takes long for the Jellyfish to surrender. Panting for breath, Rosie allows her body to go completely limp, all four limbs flopping down on the mattress. Her eyelids flutter shut. She lets out a contented sigh.

“Well done, John,” Sherlock proclaims. Their jellyfish daughter languidly sweeps her arms above her head, permitting Sherlock to secure her wrists with imaginary handcuffs (er, tentacle-cuffs). He pantomimes the same procedure on her ankles (he’s a little more hesitant, however – once she accidentally kicked him in the face when he tried to sneak a kiss against her right heel). Once all imaginary shackles are secured, Sherlock elegantly scoops her off the bed, sticking his long neck through the loop of her manacled arms. Rosie yawns, then nuzzles her chin into her papa’s silky shoulder.

“Off to jail, Jellyfish,” Sherlock murmurs, his voice low and soothing. He rests his cheek against her unruly hair, giant hand splayed tenderly across her back. “The seas are safe once more.”

“Goodnight, sweetheart. I love you,” John says quietly, rising up on his toes to kiss the top of her head.

“ _Bloop, bloop_ ,” Rosie mumbles. She’s already drifting off to sleep.

“That’s jellyfish for ‘I love you too,’” Sherlock translates.

He shifts Rosie’s weight in his arms and leans down to catch John in a kiss.

“ _Bloop, bloop_ ,” John mouths against Sherlock’s lips, snaking his arm under the dressing gown to squeeze his husband’s delectable arse.

“Not fair. My hands are full,” Sherlock mutters, breaking off their kiss. John follows a few steps behind as the detective carries their drowsy daughter off to her room.


End file.
